all his travels and excursions.
Lynborough paid no heed; he was not the man to be put off his reflections by intrusive facts.
“The blank wall of a strange house is like the old green curtain at the theatre. It may rise for you any moment and show you – what? Now what is there at Nab Grange?”
“A lot of country bumpkins, I expect,” growled Stabb.
“No, no,” Wilbraham protested. “I’ll tell you, if you like – ”
“What’s there?” Lynborough pursued. “I don’t know. You don’t know – no, you don’t, Roger, and you probably wouldn’t even if you were inside. But I like not knowing – I don’t want to know. We won’t visit at the Grange, I think. We will just idealise it, Cromlech.” He cast his queer elusive smile at his friend.
“Bosh!” said Stabb. “There’s sure to be a woman there – and I’ll be bound she’ll call on you!”
“She’ll call on me? Why?”
“Because you’re a lord,” said Stabb, scorning any more personal form of flattery.
“That fortuitous circumstance should, in my judgment, rather afford me protection.”
“If you come to that, she’s somebody herself.” Wilbraham’s knowledge would bubble out, for all the want of encouragement.
“Everybody’s somebody,” murmured Lynborough – “and it is a very odd arrangement. Can’t be regarded as permanent, eh, Cromlech? Immortality by merit seems a better idea. And by merit I mean originality. Well – I sha’n’t know the Grange, but I like to look at it. The way I picture her – ”
“Picture whom?” asked Stabb.
“Why, the Lady of the Grange, to be sure – ”
“Tut, tut, who’s thinking of the woman? – If there is a woman at all.”
“I am thinking of the woman, Cromlech, and I’ve a perfect right to think of her. At least, if not of that woman, of a woman – whose like I’ve never met.”
“She must be of an unusual type,” opined Stabb with a reflective smile.
“She is, Cromlech. Shall I describe her?”
“I expect you must.”
“Yes, at this moment – with the evening just this colour – and the Grange down there – and the sea, Cromlech, so remarkably large, I’m afraid I must. She is, of course, tall and slender; she has, of course, a rippling laugh; her eyes are, of course, deep and dreamy, yet lighting to a sparkle when one challenges. All this may be presupposed. It’s her tint, Cromlech, her colour – that’s what’s in my mind to-night; that, you will find, is her most distinguishing, her most wonderful characteristic.”
“That’s just what the Vicar told Coltson! At least he said that the Marchesa had a most extraordinary complexion.” Wilbraham had got something out at last.
“Roger, you bring me back to earth. You substitute the Vicar’s impression for my imagination. Is that kind?”
“It seems such a funny coincidence.”
“Supposing it to be a mere coincidence – no doubt! But I’ve always known that I had to meet that complexion somewhere. If here – so much the better!”
“I have a great doubt about that,” said Leonard Stabb.
“I can get it over, Cromlech! At least consider that.”
“But you’re not going to know her!” laughed Wilbraham.
“I shall probably see her as we walk down to bathe by Beach Path.”
A deferential voice spoke from behind his chair. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but Beach Path is closed.” Coltson had brought Lynborough his cigar-case and laid it down on a table by him as he communicated this intelligence.
“Closed, Coltson?”
“Yes, my lord. There’s a padlock on the gate, and a – er – barricade of furze. And the gardeners tell me they were warned off yesterday.”
“My gardeners warned off Beach Path?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“By whose orders?”
“Her Excellency’s, my lord.”
“That’s the Marchesa – Marchesa di San Servolo,” Wilbraham supplied.
“Yes, that’s the name, sir,” said Coltson respectfully.
“What about her complexion now, Ambrose?” chuckled Stabb.
“The Marchesa di San Servolo? Is that right, Coltson?”
“Perfectly correct, my lord. Italian, I understand, my lord.”
“Excellent, excellent! She has closed my Beach Path? I think I have reflected enough for to-night. I’ll go in and write a letter.” He rose, smiled upon Stabb, who himself was grinning broadly, and walked through an open window into the house.
“Now you may see something happen,” said Leonard Stabb.
“What’s the matter? Is it a public path?” asked Wilbraham.
With a shrug Stabb denied all knowledge – and, probably, all interest. Coltson, who had lingered behind his master, undertook to reply.
“Not exactly public, as I understand, sir. But the Castle has always used it. Green – that’s the head gardener – tells me so, at least.”
“By legal right, do you mean?” Wilbraham had been called to the Bar, although he had never practised. No situation gives rise to greater confidence on legal problems.
“I don’t think you’ll find that his lordship will trouble much about that, sir,” was Coltson’s answer, as he picked up the cigar-case again and hurried into the library with it.
“What does the man mean by that?” asked Wilbraham scornfully. “It’s a purely legal question – Lynborough must trouble about it.” He rose and addressed Stabb somewhat as though that gentleman were the Court. “Not a public right of way? We don’t argue that? Then it’s a case of dominant and servient tenement – a right of way by user as of right, or by a lost grant. That – or nothing!”
“I daresay,” muttered Stabb very absently.
“Then what does Coltson mean – ?”
“Coltson knows Ambrose – you don’t. Ambrose will never go to law – but he’ll go to bathe.”
“But she’ll go to law if he goes to bathe!” cried the lawyer.
Stabb blinked lazily, and seemed to loom enormous over his cigar. “I daresay – if she’s got a good case,” said he. “Do you know, Wilbraham, I don’t much care whether she does or not? But in regard to her complexion – ”
“What the devil does her
